


The Incidental Killing Of Mr. Jabez Crosby

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [64]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Attempted Murder, England (Country), F/M, Inheritance, M/M, Monks, Murder, Police, Slow Burn, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 14:44:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15536535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Of all the reasons to end someone's life that behind the sudden death of Mr. Jabez Crosby in a small provincial Wiltshire town turns out to be the strangest – especially as no-one had any motive to want him dead. Sherlock finds out the real killer and the real heir to an estate.





	The Incidental Killing Of Mr. Jabez Crosby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EmilyInHerNaturalHabitat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilyInHerNaturalHabitat/gifts).



_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

Shortly after this case my brother Sherlock paid one of his rare visits to our house and expressed his anger at the killing of an innocent man. Nor was Mr. Jabez Crosby the only man to die in this case – and had things turned out differently the death toll could have been far higher.

Kean held me a little closer that evening.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Doctor John Hamish Watson, M.D._

Of all the factors that led Holmes to put his finger on the guilty party in the cases he undertook, one of the most important was motive. And in the killing of Mr. Jabez Crosby, a young single gentleman who worked in a provincial Wiltshire bank, there seemed to be none whatsoever. 

I grabbed the arm-rest of my seat as our carriage shook in the unusually strong winds as we bowled westwards courtesy of the Great Western Railway. I had been a little concerned that my friend might be overdoing things with his recent caseload as we had only just concluded the adventure later written up as _The Norwood Builder_ , but he looked well enough.

“Unless he was killed in error for someone else, I do not see it”, I said, frowning at the letter that had arrived at Baker Street late the previous day. It had come from the wonderfully-named Sergeant Wilberforce Rhynes Chevalier, sergeant at the police station in the small town of Stevedon not far from Swindon and the great railway works. “It may just be the accident that it appears.”

“Sergeant Chevalier thinks it is not”, Holmes said, “and his letter was most business-like and efficient. Not overly informative, but perhaps he has information that he would not wish to commit to paper.”

“Why would anyone want to poison both a banker and an abbey full of monks?” I mused, as I read through a short piece on the town. “It is surely a crime without motive.”

“There is always the possibility that we are dealing with a madman”, Holmes admitted, “but few crimes are truly without motive. And even to the madman, his actions usually make some sort of sense. Is there anything of interest about the place in your Bradshaw?”

“A bit”, I said. “Stevedon was a Saxon town, acquired a castle under the Normans and had a minster church that evolved into an abbey. It remained important until it fell foul of that blackguard Henry the Eighth, the abbey being sold to one of his followers who mostly knocked it down and rebuilt it as Stevedon Grange which is still there, although totally rebuilt since. It was next purchased by Henry Earl of Warminster who entertained Good Queen Bess there but his descendant Earl Arthur fled with James the Second in sixteen hundred and eighty-eight and it passed to some cousins of theirs, the Horsingtons, who have held it ever since. About twenty years the current Lord Horsington, the first Catholic to hold that title in over three centuries, gave some of the old outbuildings to an order of monks who re-founded a new abbey in them.”

“And the town?” Holmes asked.

“Gone downhill since”, I said. “Lost its castle in the Civil Wars and managed to get sacked by both the Roundheads and the Cavaliers, got sacked again in the Glorious Revolution when some locals tried to seize the place for James the Second, was by-passed by the Great West Road, then refused to let the railway through when it was coming in from London. Brunel went via Swindon instead and Stevedon became a backwater.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

When we finally reached the town however, I wondered if it had chosen that badly in refusing the railway (there had been plans for a branch from Jevington, the station whence we had come from some two miles south of the town, but they had come to naught). Now it was a pleasantly quiet place, redolent of an England which seemed to belong to another age. I had grown up next to the railway in Northumberland but from the many times that I had walked over to Bamburgh, I had seen what a difference it made when 'progress' did or did not come through. Had Stevedon chosen well or ill? It was hard to say.

I had visualized Stevedon Abbey as being out in the country, far away from the town itself. It came as something of a surprise that it was quite the opposite. A frankly unimpressive archway leading away from the High Street between the Tar & Feathers Inn and a solicitor’s led to a second archway, beyond which we found ourselves in some sort of stable-yard. A smartly-dressed fellow in his forties, wearing a tweed suit that looked as if it had seen better days, approached us. He looked decidedly unwelcoming.

“Greetings, sirs”, he said tersely. “You are aware that this is private property?”

His tone very much implied that he hoped we were not. 

“We are here to see Sergeant Chevalier”, Holmes said politely. “At the new abbey. We were led to understand that this is the way in?”

The man looked at us thoughtfully.

“This is the back entrance, sirs”, he said. “This ground is the property of Stevedon Abbey, but the Grange owner has right of passage across it. The main entrance to the latter is off Wayland's Lane.”

“As we are here over a small matter of murder on these premises, it is clearly the abbot that we need to see”, Holmes said. “Who are you, sir?”

His tone was not rude, but it was as dry and unwelcoming as the one in which we ourselves had been addressed. Our inquisitor seemed surprised to have his attitude thrown back at him.

“Mr. Sirius Furness, sirs”, he said. “Estate-manager to Lord Horsington, owner of the Grange. The Abbey entrance is that blue door over there.”

Holmes nodded his thanks and we left the man standing in the middle of the yard. A knock at the door and we were admitted into the old building where we found the Father Abbot and Sergeant Chevalier waiting for us. The abbot was a small elderly fellow, seemingly worn down by his many years in office, whilst the sergeant was the exact opposite, a tall, muscular fellow of about thirty-five years of age who seemed to fill the room with his sheer bulk. The odd thought crossed my mind that he would have been better fitted to being a crusading knight of old rather than a country policeman. When he spoke however, it was with the typical slow Wiltshire burr.

“This is a most strange matter”, he said, “one which we would both like cleared up as soon as possible.”

“I thank you for coming”, the abbot said. “My name is Dunstan and I am father to the seventeen brothers in this establishment. I only hope that you can establish what did happen, as the sergeant here is fearful that it may be a precursor to something worse.”

“You were a little uninformative in your letter”, Holmes said. “You did however state that you believed the death of Mr. Crosby and the poisoning of the brothers here was linked in some way?”

“Policeman’s instinct”, the sergeant said shortly. “Something about this smells, and it’s not just the sage and onions!”

“We seem to be getting ahead of ourselves”, Holmes smiled. “Let us start at the beginning.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

A brother brought us the traditional bread and wine and Father Abbot waited until he had gone before commencing.

“Friday started out as a seemingly normal day”, he said. “The only thing out of the ordinary, most unhappily as events transpired, was the visit by Mr. Jabez Crosby who runs our account at the bank in the town.”

“Why was he here?” Holmes asked curiously. “I would have expected you to have to go to the bank rather than his coming here.”

“Mr. Crosby runs his father's finances as the man is an invalid”, the abbey said, “and his father owns a strip of land that abuts into our own. It was of no use to him and he had said that he himself might sell it to us once his father had passed, but he had to respect his father's wishes and keep it for now. To be fair neither gentleman objects to our traversing the land, which is most kind of them as it would greatly inconvenience our work here if we had to go around it every time.”

Stranger and stranger, I thought. Surely then it was the elder Mr. Crosby that someone may have had the motive to remove, not the younger?

“Without going into too much detail, may I ask in what state the Abbey's finances are just now?” Holmes asked.

“We are not rich”, the abbot said, “but we are doing well enough. And Lord Horsington is most generous to us; if we did face any major expense I am sure that he would assist us.”

There was, I thought, more than a little in his voice of ' and so he should'.

“So to the fateful evening”, the abbot said. “The meal that day was of course fish and potatoes, served with herbs. Dinner was barely finished however before all the brothers in the dining hall started feeling very ill. The town physician Dr. Storrington was called, and he quickly established that they had all been poisoned.”

“Poisoned?” I asked. He nodded.

“Belladonna, or deadly nightshade”, he said. “Some had apparently sprouted amongst the herbs and been picked in error. Unfortunately Brother Demetrius, who normally supervises the herbarium, has been ill of late so his replacement must have been careless. But worse was to follow. Brother Marcus the cook dispatched the meals to the dining-area and the prior's quarters at the same time. Doctor Storrington, who was treating the brothers at the time, rushed to try to help but was too late. It seemed like a tragic error.”

“I am not inclined to believe that it was an error”, Sergeant Chevalier said firmly, “tragic or otherwise. I spoke to the two brothers who picked the herbs and they were both adamant that there was only sage in their baskets. I have looked at both plants and there are definite differences.”

I rather liked this policeman. He definitely seemed to know what was what.

“It is possible that the two would not wish to incriminate themselves”, Holmes mused. “Still, let us assume for a moment that you are right and that this was deliberate. Was everyone affected?”

“Except for two of us”, the abbot said. “Myself – I was dining at the Grange that evening – the cook himself who always eats after everybody else.”

Holmes nodded.

“Please tell me about Stevedon Grange”, he said.

“It has been in the Horsington family ever since the Revolution of 1688”, the abbot said. “Lord Giles is the current holder, and is I am afraid sot say not in good health. We had thought that he was the last of the line but last year he found a distant cousin, a Mr. Alexander Hill, who is now his heir. That changed matters, because back in 1704 the then Lord Horsington wrote into his will that the Holy Church would get the lands back if the family’s male line ever failed. The current Lord, being of the old faith, rightly changed the wording to the Catholic Church. That outcome looked quite likely until the sudden advent of Mr. Hill.”

I wondered if he had been disappointed by Mr. Hill's arrival on the scene.

“Lord Giles has been most generous”, the abbot said. “These buildings were the old outhouses and stables to the Grange, but when he inherited his first act was to gift them back to the Holy Mother Church.”

I underlined the word ‘back’. 

“How has Lord Giles responded to the incident?” Holmes asked.

“He sent his own doctor down to help”, the abbot said. “He could not have been more helpful.”

Once again I could hear the implied ‘and so he should’ in there. I was becoming catty in my.... later middle age.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Holmes decided that he wished to see the herb-garden from which the deadly dinner had been gathered, and we were shown there by Brother Joseph, Brother Demetrius’ replacement during the latter’s indisposition. My friend questioned the man closely on various herbs around the small enclosed garden, but he definitely seemed to know what he was talking about. Belladonna was grown in the garden for medicinal purposes, but Brother Joseph showed us that it was in an isolated part of the garden to which only Brother Honorius, the herbalist, ever ventured. All the other monks knew well that even touching some of the herbs grown therein could bring illness or even death, and there was a large sign warning about the need for gloves on the gate in. 

We decided to adjourn to the Coach & Horses, the other major tavern in the High Street, for lunch. Sergeant Chevalier joined us just as we were finishing but declined a drink as he was on duty.

“I could not say as much in front of Father Abbot”, he said, “but I do not like his prior, Richard. Although I do not see any motive for his attempting to kill an entire abbey full of his own brothers, let alone poor Mr. Crosby. And although the bank manager would not give me exact details, he did assure me that the abbey's accounts were in good order.”

“Tell us about the people at the Grange”, Holmes said. “In particular, which faith they follow.”

The sergeant seemed surprised at that question, but duly answered.

“Lord Giles is about as Catholic as they come”, he said firmly. “He was as the abbot said able to change the original wording leaving everything to 'the Church'; I understand that he spent a lot of money on lawyers to make it all watertight. He even pays for masses and everything. Until this distant relative rolled up I believe he would have been perfectly happy to have the lands returned to the Abbey on his death, but Mr. Hill’s advent has changed all that. Blood trumps faith, I suppose.”

“It is rather strange”, Holmes mused. “And timely. With the succession unclear the abbey could have inherited, and possession is an important factor in the law. What is this Mr. Hill like?”

“He is a foreigner”, the sergeant said, sounding openly distrustful. “Two of Lord Giles’ cousins went over to Australia some years ago, and he is the one that came back. The other one got shot over a claim to a gold-mine; he was injured in the same attack but survived. He is Church of England but not that religious. I have heard that Lord Giles wished him to convert, although he could not make his inheriting the estate dependent on that. I think Mr. Hill might go along with it anyway though, just to keep the old man happy.”

“We were fortunate enough to meet the estate-manager earlier”, I said dryly. “He was not exactly welcoming.”

“Mr. Furness depends on Lord Giles for his job”, the sergeant said. “It is said around town that he and Mr. Hill do not see eye to eye over the future of the estate. I suspect that he will be looking for alternative employment soon after Lord Giles joins the choir invisible.”

“And Mr. Furness is Church of England?”

“He is”, the sergeant confirmed. “High Church. That is another point of tension between him and Mr. Hill.”

“It is all very odd”, Holmes said. “We have a crime committed without any apparent motive, _and_ in the wrong place.”

“The wrong place?” I asked.

“If there were a poisoning at the Grange, then I could understand it”, Holmes said. “But in the abbey – that makes no sense.”

His words were to prove horribly prophetic.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Eight days later Holmes and I were once more on our way to Stevedon. There had been a second poisoning, this time at the Grange just as my friend had foretold. And once again someone had died.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

The poisoning had actually happened on the Saturday and Sergeant Chevalier had requested our presence as soon as possible. Holmes had surprised me by responding that we were currently finishing a case (we were not) and could not come immediately, but that he promised to come down on the first train on Monday morning, which we were now on. He had used the weekend to do some research into the Horsingtons, to what end I did not know. Now however we were on our way, the train thankfully rather smoother than the week before. 

We met Sergeant Chevalier at Jevington Station, and he took us directly to the Grange and the study of Lord Giles. The man seemed to be in shock, wrapped as he was in copious blankets on his couch.

“This is terrible!”, he muttered. “And it is all my fault!”

“How so, sir?” Holmes asked. The nobleman looked at him.

“Last week”, he said, in a tone little more than a whisper. “I received an anonymous letter from Australia. The sender claimed that the man calling himself Mr. Alexander Hill was, in fact, an impostor. My cousins were both killed in the argument over that mine and Mr. Hill was the one that killed them, before assuming one of their identities and coming to England.”

“What did you do with the letter?” Holmes asked.

“I threw it into the fire, of course!” the nobleman said angrily. “Scurrilous nonsense! But I kept wondering….. so when I went to confession with Prior Richard I told all to him. He asked me how I felt about it, and I…I….”

He stopped, looking totally wretched.

“You did what?” Holmes prompted.

“I asked God to send me a sign!” the nobleman whispered. “And at dinner that same evening my cousin – or whoever he was – died!”

I had to suppress a laugh when I caught Sergeant Chevalier's face. It clearly said 'God give me strength!'. 

We managed to extricate ourselves from the blabbering nobleman and the sergeant took us into the dining-room where the poisoning had happened. There was a massive portrait of a smartly-dressed nobleman from the last century hanging on the wall, staring down disapprovingly at us all as if we were Lowering The Tone Of Their Abode.

“Edwin, the Lord Horsington who inherited the estate after the Glorious Revolution”, the sergeant explained. “A bit of an eccentric; he was the one who promised the land back to the Church if his line ever failed. I suppose having fathered four sons and eight more on the wrong side of the blanket, he thought the line was secure.”

Holmes looked at him quizzically.

“You seem highly conversant with the family history”, he observed.

“You have to know the important folks round here so you don't tread on any toes”, the sergeant said. “You seem to find that portrait interesting.”

“I do”, Holmes said. “You mentioned those born on the wrong side of the blanket, as you call them. Would not they be barred from inheriting?”

“Not if all the legitimate lines were exhausted”, the sergeant said. “I have to say it looks as if the Catholic Church will get its land back after all – unless another heir pops up out of nowhere!”

“Or someone pretending to be such”, Holmes said. “Let us return to Saturday night. What was the precise sequence of events, please?”

The sergeant flipped open his notebook.

“Lord Giles spent the afternoon reading in his room”, he said. “Prior Richard visited him shortly after four bringing a herbal rub, as well as some supplies for the kitchen....”

“Supplies?” Holmes cut in.

“His Lordship obtained his herbs and spices, as well as some vegetables, from the abbey”, the sergeant said. “It was part of the deal for them having the land; a sort of rent I suppose. That, according to the local doctor, was what got Mr. Hill. The meal that night was roast beef with potatoes and vegetables, and the sage that the cook here used must have been from the same batch that poisoned the monks the week before. I should have remembered that some might have found its way up here!”

“Was not His Lordship poisoned?” I asked.

“He ate little that night and he did feel poorly afterwards, but nothing serious. He said that he was still distracted from his conversation with Prior Richard earlier.”

“And no-one else came to or left the house that day?” Holmes asked.

“His Lordship did go out for a walk before dinner”, the sergeant said. “It was when Mr. Hill came back from a visit to Swindon; he said he wished to avoid talking to him given what he'd just read. He said that he went over Fairlee Woods way.”

Holmes smiled.

“That is important”, he said firmly. “The doctor and I have some calls to make in the town in connection with our inquiries, but I see a definite pattern here. If all goes well you may have your town jail occupied by the end of the day, sir. Though I suspect that you will be surprised at who is in it!”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Our first call was to Doctor Charles Storrington who had examined the body after the death. The man seemed more than a little wary of us.

“Are you doubting my findings, gentlemen?” he inquired, somewhat testily.

“Not at all”, Holmes said smoothly. “I do have two questions, however, which may help me to solve this matter. First, what alcohol did Mr. Hill imbibe shortly before dying?”

“His Lordship served a rich red wine from Spain with dinner”, the doctor said. “He provided me with the decanter which I of course had tested. It was negative. The only poison was in the herbs. I am sorry.”

“Indeed, that is what I hoped you would say”, Holmes said to the man's evident mystification. “My second question is a little more personal and I will understand if you feel unable to answer it. For how long has Lord Giles suffered from his heart condition?”

The doctor stared at him in surprise.

“He told _you_ about it?” he asked dubiously.

“No”, Holmes said. “It is my business to know things, usually things people would rather that I did not know. I merely wished for you to confirm my suspicions. Thank you for your time, doctor.”

He ushered me out of the room. I turned to him.

“How did you know that Lord Giles had a heart condition?” I asked. “I would have needed an examination to confirm that. Or do you think that someone may try to poison him next?”

“My thoughts are not in that direction”, Holmes smiled. “Though his condition may become all too relevant if one of our next ports of call yields the result that I expect.”

As well as its taverns Stevedon High Street had two restaurants, but Holmes apparently did not find whatever he was looking for in any of them. That was until a barmaid in the Tar & Feathers suggested that he try the Navigation Inn, which lay about a mile north of the town by the Great West Road. Holmes indulged me with a carriage ride and after a short time inside he emerged looking triumphant.

“The case is closed!” he said firmly. “And it will give me great satisfaction, based on what I discovered about the family yesterday, to bring the perpetrators to book.”

“Perpetrators?” I asked. “More than one?”

“Two people were involved in this crime”, he said. “Come, let us fetch Sergeant Chevalier. I think that he in particular will be pleased with what I have discovered.”

In light of what happened next Holmes' statement proved truer than I could ever have realized.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

There were seven of us in the dining-room at the Grange, as the setting sun gave the room a golden tinge. Lord Horsington sat at the head of the table, with his estate manager Mr. Furness on his right, and Doctor Storrington on his left. Father Abbot and Prior Richard were sat down one side of the table, and I sat opposite them. Sergeant Chevalier stood by the door, his huge presence a reassurance bearing in mind Holmes – standing directly opposite our host – was about to accuse someone (or some two) of murder.

“This crime was most carefully thought out”, Holmes began. “Until a little over one week ago, our chief protagonist had no intention of committing murder, although he was already entertaining certain doubts about the man who would become his victim, Mr. Alexander Hill.”

He turned to the sergeant.

“I am afraid that I told you a small lie before coming down this time”, he said. “There were two matters about this case which I wished to clarify; both involved some in-depth research and calling on certain associates of mine, which was why I needed an extra day. I was able to establish that the claims made in the letter that Lord Horsington received recently were, in fact, quite genuine. Mr. Alexander Hill was in fact Mr. Bruce Wanless, a wanted Australian felon and almost certainly the man who murdered both the potential heirs to Stevedon Grange.”

“I knew it!” Lord Horsington muttered. Holmes turned to him.

“But you yourself were not strictly truthful, were you, my lord?” he said. “Even though you did entertain doubts about Mr. Hill's veracity, a mere letter alleging him to be a liar would not have been enough to persuade someone like you. I spoke to your butler, and he told me that the 'letter' that you received at that time was in fact a substantial sheaf of documents. Whoever sent them to you included written proof that 'Mr. Hill' was an impostor. You omitted that fact; indeed, you attempted to mislead us by saying that you threw 'the letter' into the fire, implying that it was all you had received.”

“I did not wish to look more stupid that I already was”, the nobleman muttered, red-faced.

“Hmm”, Holmes said. “Let us consider what happened next. You are weak, sir, and you knew full well that if Mr. Hill found out that you were checking up on him..... well, accidents can happen, can they not? So you sought help. You went to Prior Richard in the confessional and you told him all.”

The prior looked disdainfully at Holmes.

“As I am sure you are aware”, he said starchily, “the seal of the confessional is sacred.”

“I do”, Holmes said. “Religious orders are rightly granted certain privileges so that they can function as they need, and that is all right and proper. _But those privileges do not extend to murder!”_

There was a stony silence in the room. Holmes paused before continuing.

“The two of you hatched a plan, but as neither of you were medical experts you decided to try it out first. Prior Richard knew that the cook ground up the sage before using it, so he himself ground up some belladonna and, on visiting the kitchen beforehand, placed it amongst the prepared sage to be used for his fellow brothers' evening meal. That way, he could test to see the reaction to a dose of that size in relation to the size of the meal served. Much worse, however, he added a second dose of poison to the meal of poor Mr. Jabez Crosby, who he had arranged would be dining with him that evening. That poor innocent gentleman was murdered for the basest of reasons, merely to see if the chosen poison was effective.”

I stared at the prior in shock.

“At first things seem to work well”, Holmes said. “The brothers who received one dose all survive and only the luckless Mr. Crosby, who received two doses, dies. Unfortunately the meddlesome local sergeant then went and called in a renowned consulting detective from London. Suddenly, and not just because of Lord Horsington's ailing health, speed was of the essence.”

“You, my lord, waited a few days for the hue and cry to die down”, Holmes went on, “then arranged for Prior Richard to come to bring your regular supply of herbs and spices. One of the bottles that he brought contained the same sage-infested belladonna that had poisoned the brothers the week before; people would think it just unlucky that one bottle had evaded detection. And the belladonna in the bottle was not enough to kill a man – because you had a second part to your evil scheme.”

He turned to the doctor. 

“Some time in the past few weeks Lord Horsington sent to you with a message that a servant had dropped his bottle of heart-medicine”, he said. “You provided a replacement immediately.”

“I did”, the doctor said warily. “How did you know that?”

I suddenly saw it.

“Of course!” I blurted out. “Heart-medicine. The standard treatment for an irregular heartbeat is digitalis, the drug found in belladonna!”

“Indeed”, Holmes said. “You, Lord Horsington, made sure that the digitalis from your _not_ broken bottle was dispersed around your so-called cousin's meal so that he would receive a fatal dose. There was nothing in the wine, and you ate a little of the potatoes, which had a very small dosage. Unfortunately for you, you were also greedy. You went to the Navigation Inn for a meal barely an hour before you ate, then claimed that you were still distracted by your confessional so did not feel hungry.”

Lord Horsington dragged himself to his feet and stared down the table at my friend.

“I may have been caught”, he said, “but I shall die before justice can be done. And these lands will be restored to the Holy Mother Church despite your machinations, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!”

Holmes smiled dangerously.

“I think not.”

“What do you mean?” Prior Richard demanded, also rising to his feet. 

Holmes reached down for the small folder that was lying on the table in front of him and extracted an official-looking document. He read from it.

“Certified Copy of an Entry of Marriage”, he quoted. “Mr. Jacob Ian Horsington, bachelor, to Miss Mabel Ann Lucas, spinster.”

The sergeant coughed heavily. Holmes turned to him.

“When I saw you by that portrait, I knew that you were indeed of Lord Edwin's blood” he said. “Lord Horsington's cousin Jacob contracted a secret marriage in eighteen hundred and sixty-two, and you were the result. She even had the idea of giving you a name to subtly claim your paternity, 'chevalier' being the French for 'horseman'.”

“You bastard!” Prior Richard exclaimed. “You lie!”

“You may see the documents”, Holmes said airily. “All copies, so do not trouble yourself to destroy them.”

The sergeant pulled himself up to his full and impressive height.

“Prior, my lord” he said stonily. ”I am going to have to ask you both to accompany me to the police station.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Lord Horsington was proven right about his evading justice, for he died just two days after the dramatic revelations at Stevedon Grange. Sergeant Wilberforce Rhynes Chevalier became the new Lord Horsington, and with three young boys of his own the line was again secured. Prior Richard had many years in an English jail to rue his part in a murder, and I suspect only the fact that he had not acted alone and the death of his accomplice led a jury to spare his wretched neck. And Holmes and I both laughed when, one month later, we received a photograph through the general post showing the new lord of the manor and his family, the sergeant still in the uniform of the post he had declined to surrender.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
